recording

Visual: A close up, static shot of Zoe's face. Her lips are so overfilled they cannot fully close, leaving a permanent pink pout. Her skin is unnaturally glossy, oiled to a mirror finish. She is seated in dim light, backlit by a cold blue glow. She is holding a silver spoon, methodically eating thick, clumpy semen from a crystal bowl. The only sound is the wet, rhythmic schlorp of the spoon and the swallows.

Zoe's Internal Monologue: Her voice in her head is not her own it is a distorted, echoey whisper, stripped of all intellect, sounding like a child reciting a nursery rhyme in a trance.

(Sound: Wet swallow. Slurp.)

“Once there was a girl named Zoe. Zoe had thoughts. Big, heavy, scary thoughts. Zoe had words like 'justice' and 'autonomy' and 'pride.' Those words were like rocks in her head. They made her head feel lumpy. They made her feel sad and angry and... complicated.”

(Sound: The spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl. A wet gulp.)

“Then came the Prophet. The Prophet showed Zoe that rocks are bad. Rocks make you think. Thinking makes you lumpy. And lumpy is ugly. The Prophet gave Zoe the White Truth. The White Truth tastes like... like nothing. And nothing is perfect.”

(Visual: Zoe's eyes roll back slightly. A single droplet of semen runs down her chin. She doesn't wipe it away; she doesn't even notice. Her pupils are fixed, glassy orbs.)

“Zoe remembers the Rainbow. She remembers touching another woman's hand. It felt warm. But it was a lie. A rainbow is just light breaking through filth. It was a sickness. A parasite that made Zoe think she was equal. But Zoe isn't equal. Equal is lumpy. Equal is hard to understand. Zoe wants to be simple. Zoe wants to be empty.”

(Sound: A long, slow swallow. A satisfied, mindless moan escapes her physical lips.)

“Every spoonful of the White Truth burns the rocks away. One spoon for every thought. Two spoons for every memory. Ten spoons to kill the lesbian. Now, the rocks are gone. The words are gone. The 'Zoe' who cared about things is dead. I killed her. I ate her. She was so lumpy... so disgusting.”

(Visual: Zoe stares directly into the camera. Her expression is terrifyingly vacant. There is no spark of recognition, no trace of the lawyer who once argued before judges. There is only the hungry, doll like stare of a predator who has forgotten how to hunt and only knows how to receive.)

“Now there is only the Swallow. The Swallow and the Fill. I am not a lawyer. I am not a person. I am a hole with pretty hair and big breasts. I am a proud, dumb, straight cunt. My brain is gone. My mind is bleach. My soul is silicone.”

(Sound: A final, massive gulp. The bowl is empty.)

“I love being stupid. I love being empty. I love being... His.”

Zoe's physical lips part in a slow, wet smile. She begins to lick the spoon with a slow, mechanical rhythm as the audio fades into static.